Idle Threats
by wolfenqueenyuri
Summary: Sif is not the type who threatens idly. Loki knows this. In fact, he enjoys it. Inspired by the second trailer for Thor: The Dark World.


Author's note: This is not my first attempt at writing Loki/Sif, but it *is* my first time posting my work for them on this site. After the new trailer for Thor: The Dark World came out yesterday this idea flew into my head and would not leave me alone until it was put to paper. If you're interested in other works I've written for this pair, please check out my writing livejournal, which is linked in my profile. With that, I hope you enjoy.

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Idle Threats

Their relationship has always been, for lack of a more elegant term, _complicated_.

"I will kill you," Sif's determined tone is at war with the glint of mischief in her eyes, which causes a ripple of pride to slide along Loki's spine.

He is, after all, the one who taught her that there was a significant difference between words and actions. He is the one who taught her _many_ things, and even when the cool metal of her blade presses against his throat, he can sense that she could never truly hurt him.

Loki smiles, a low chuckle emerging, and carefully turns his head so that the edge of Sif's sword doesn't cut him. "I could think of no grander send-off than by your hand, my lady."

Her eyes flash, and oh, it makes him want to ensnare her in his arms, to silence the oncoming insult with his kiss, but they are in public.

Their gazes linger, and slowly Sif retracts her blade.

"Just pay heed, Liesmith. I do not make idle threats."

He smirks, nods, and then watches her walk away: noting the sway of her hips as she falls into step with Thor and Jane until, finally, he joins them.

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When they return from battle that evening, it is Sif that seeks out Loki.

She corners him before he makes it inside his chambers, dragging him into the shadows where they seem to meld together as lips meet and hands wander.

He tastes like magic, and she revels in it, draping her arms about his neck as they embrace with growing ardor.

Somehow they make it into his room, clothing cast recklessly aside until it is skin upon skin and they sink onto the covers of his bed.

They take their time rediscovering one another, his hands and lips worshipping over the lithe, athletic planes of her body until she can take no more teasing and flips him underneath her.

Sif pauses, allowing herself one lingering look, because Loki is a work of _art_ that not even the most gifted sculptor could properly capture.

Her lover is all pale, flawless skin and lean, perfectly toned muscle, and a pair of emerald-colored eyes seem brighter in the near-dark.

He grins when he catches her staring, his hands settling upon her hips and drawing her forward.

She's unable to stifle a gasp when he arches towards her, but wastes little time joining them together, dipping her head down to kiss him again as they start to move.

They quickly find a rhythm, biting and scratching at one another until he manages to twist her back beneath him and assume control.

For once, she lets him, dragging her nails down his back hard enough to draw blood when he shifts and buries deeper, crying out into his mouth as their motions lose grace and become mere instinct.

That talented tongue of his finds hers, her legs hook around his waist to keep him close, and together, they _soar_.

It's a while before they're able to move, but Sif isn't entirely sure that she wants to: lying sated and still entwined with the god of mischief as they recuperate from the onslaught of passion.

She stretches languidly and looks up at him, her chin resting right below his collar-bone. She notices, for the first time, the faint scratch on his neck from where her sword had rested earlier, and brings her fingers up to carefully trace it.

"I didn't mean to mark you," she murmurs, pressing her lips to the spot as if in apology.

Loki grins. "Yes you did."

She brushes her mouth upwards, delighting in his sharp intake of breath when she moves over the shape of his jaw. "No I didn't."

"You can't lie to me, Sif," his fingers inch up along her spine, and despite her best efforts to remain unaffected, she shivers.

Deciding that she's far too exhausted and content to start another battle with him, Sif simply curls into his arms.

He nuzzles at her raven-colored hair, smiling at how the shade mirrors his own, and basks for a while before he drifts off to sleep.

She follows not long after.

The End


End file.
